


this pop life

by sigarilyo (descartes)



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-30
Updated: 2009-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:49:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/descartes/pseuds/sigarilyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Briefly, the one where David Archuleta is a pop star. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this pop life

His feet are perfectly flat on the hallway's thick cream carpeting. He's wearing new blue sneakers that still creak when he tentatively bends his toes.

L.A. is still the same in the minutes he spent outdoors between the airport and the limo, then from the limo to the cool, hushed interior of the studios. Still smoggy -- not as much as Vegas, though -- and terrible for his voice, but he stopped caring long ago, before he learned how to angle his chin the right way for the best cast of shadow, but after he folded his laughter into himself, to be parceled out appropriately.

He hasn't slept in over twenty-two hours. It doesn't matter. They've given him a pill in the limo -- not one of the tan multivitamins, but the little white caffeine tablets a doctor had prescribed because coffee stained his teeth -- and he's lucid and wide-eyed. He had called his dad after that, told him everything was fine, he was fine, how's everybody back home?

The grumbling from the air conditioner disappears under the noise of his assistant opening the door. A cellphone is dangling from her wrist. He can't tell from the glare of the fluorescent lights if it's one of her cellphones or one of his.

"David," she says. "They're ready."

He doesn't know the name of the producer he's meeting with. They tell him about a lot of things, like what he's supposed to wear to the next appearance, who he'll be accompanying, what to say when reporters ask about his next projects, but they don't tell him about things like this.

David remembers getting into trouble early in his career, when he told a fan something he shouldn't have, because he was giddy and excited and he couldn't control his feelings. That only happened once.

He's heard the song that's been submitted, tinny in his ears while a make-up artist cooed over his skin in New York. A note attached to the CD had read: adult, but we can tweak the lyrics. the melody will be pop. He carefully mouthed, _it could have been different, it could have all been the same_, fitting the words to the shape of his lipsticked lips.

Cook is the kind of man that David would have imagined had written the song. His beard is unsculpted and scruffy, hair dull from a lack of product. He smiles at David warmly, winks when he says his name, like it's a secret joke between them.

David refuses to feel self-conscious about the softness of his palm compared to Cook's guitar calluses.

The session goes as they all do. The label representative hands David a pair of headphones to hear the new arrangement, then he steps into the booth and sings the song once, for the three people in the control room to critique. He nods to the sheaf of music in front him in response to Cook's _how about you do this?_ or _maybe if you--_

David only looks up when they reach the third stanza and Cook asks, "Can you improvise some runs here?" and he replies, "I don't think, I'm not supposed," and Cook grins at him from the other side of soundproofed glass and says, "Don't worry about it."

The rep finally nods at the sound engineer, hands a folder of contracts for Cook to look at and leaves, signaling the end of the day's session. Early, David thinks, because his assistant hasn't come up to take him to his next obligation yet.

Cook's rubbing the back of his neck, and when he raises his arm, his sleeve pulls back to reveal a hint of dark ink. "Hey, want to grab a bite?" David's eyes skitter towards the telephone on the side table. "Let's not call up. There's a cafe in the lobby. We can get away from the studio, we've been here for hours."

David hasn't noticed. Time only means something to him when his people say it does.

Camera smile, not too wide, no teeth, showing off the marvelous dimple on his cheek. He says, "That would be nice." Slips on a hat and sunglasses while Cook packs up his things and the bodyguard calls down to request a private table.

The purity ring on its silver chain around his neck clinks gently as he and Cook walk through the door. David keeps his hands held loosely to his side. His bodyguard is five steps behind them; David knows because Cook keeps wanting to glance back, but is too polite to do so.

The cafe staff's used to celebrities, so there's a table for him and Cook at the back, and another one for David's bodyguard. David sits with his back to everybody else. He orders a salad and soda, while Cook decides on a burger with the works, which he calls a celebration of one of his songs finally getting bought.

"So," Cook says, pointing at him with a pinky. There's a dot of mayo on his nose. "The food's fine? It's not exactly home cooking, but you were looking at your tomato kinda sadly, so."

David peeks at Cook from underneath the brim of his hat, lifts a shoulder in a minute gesture. Half of his plate is untouched, fork laid neatly beside his napkin.

David says, face uncreased and pristine, "They'll recognize me if I smile."

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics are from "Fall Back Into Me" by David Cook, which I haven't actually listened to, so its pop-song merits are beyond my judgment.


End file.
